


in fields of sand

by calciseptine



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon - Movie, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bruises on Thorin's body are second only to his bruised pride.</p><p>Or, Bilbo isn't taking no dwarf-king nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place directly after _An Unexpected Journey_ and, while the events unfold canonically, I fudged the pacing. I'm not sure how long it takes the company to reach Beorn's home once they leave Carrock, but for the purpose of my plot, the journey takes about three days.
> 
> Also, I don't know why I thought writing this story from Thorin's POV would be a good idea. I've met iron bars that are more flexible than this asshole. :|

_the rocks they left_  
 _and through wet lands_  
 _they sought a home_  
 _in fields of sand._

völuspá

 

 

Gandalf's spell had healed the worst of Thorin's injuries—the bite wounds that had punctured through his armor and flesh, the deadly pressure that swelled beneath his lungs, and the broken wrist and cracked ribs—but bruises and aches remain. They prickle like the sharpest thorns: deep and wretched and impossible to ignore.

"Are you still hurting?" Bilbo asks as quiet as the embers of the fire, the night after the great eagles had rescued them from the cliff and they climbed down the treacherous steps of Carrock. The moon is waxing in the sky and the rest of the company, save for Balin who keeps watch, sleeps deeply; the last time they rested was before the goblins captured them, over two days past. Thorin aches to join them, yet no matter how long he keeps his eyes closed, consciousness stubbornly remains.

"No," he answers, a false reply.

"That warg near killed you." Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin watches Bilbo shift beneath his once-fine corduroy coat. It is dirty from their travels, but the tears it has suffered have been mended. Thorin had frowned when he first saw the tiny, neat, and practiced stitches Bilbo created, and had thought in contempt, _too soft._ Even when the company had turned to Bilbo to fix their rent clothing and torn cloaks, Thorin had turned a blind eye and refused to think of Bilbo's talent as the small boon it was. It did not outweigh his uselessness; tiny, neat, and practiced stitches would mean nothing to an enemy.

"I am well, hobbit." Thorin raises his voice in annoyance, loud enough for Balin to glance over at them from across the camp, but not loud enough to wake Dwalin, who snores deeply to Thorin's right. "What I need is rest."

"Thorin," Bilbo murmurs. His voice is as gentle as a summer wind through the forest, and Thorin feels the familiar stab of irritation. Bilbo has earned his respect—anyone brave enough to charge an orc, against odds, to protect a fallen comrade would—but Thorin is the leader of this company and he refuses to be a concern, least of all the worry of a hobbit.

"Both of us," Thorin snaps with finality, "need rest."

For a long moment, Bilbo remains silent. Obviously torn between his strict, hobbit politeness and his quick, dwarven temper, he makes no move to settle down into his bedroll, so Thorin turns pointedly onto his side and forces his body to be as still as stone.

Thorin has watched Bilbo time enough to know what the indecision on the hobbit's face would look like: a moue of displeasure, a slight furrow between his fretful brows, and shadows in the corners of his round eyes. Perhaps one of Bilbo's small hands would be stretched out in front of him as though to close the gap between their bodies, or perhaps it would be fisted tightly atop his thigh in order to halt such a gesture before it could be executed. Whichever it is, Thorin does not want to see.

Eventually, Thorin hears the unmistakable noise of Bilbo lying down upon the forest floor and, not long after that, Bilbo's breathing deepens into sleep. Thorin listens to the hobbit and his soft exhales—he does not snore like the rest of the company, as quiet as a sleeping dormouse—beneath the canopy of slowly turning stars, till Balin puts another log on their fire and rouses Dori for his watch.

Finally, between one of Bilbo's soft sighs and the next, Thorin's exhaustion triumphs over his pains, and he sleeps.

.

The next day, the company comes across a shallow stream on their journey to Erebor. It is enough to fill their waterskins and wash the sweat, grime, and goblin blood from their bodies. Thorin cups the cold water in the wide bowl of his palms and drags the damp across his face, his throat, and the back of his neck. It trickles down his tunic, bites into his ragged flesh, and makes him hiss.

Crouched on the rocky, steep bank next to him, Bilbo raises his head at the sound that whistles past Thorin's clenched teeth and bared lips. The sunlight coming through the canopy catches in the curls of his light brown hair, and gives the illusion that each loop has been spun from gold; his eyes, by contrast, are as dark as shale. The smooth planes of his face and the softness of his jaw are as inviting as they are alien, and with the same sudden and devastating force as a blunt hammer to heated iron, Thorin is struck by Bilbo's comely, earthen beauty.

It is not the first time since their paths converged that Thorin has felt want for the hobbit, but it is the first time that derision does not follow. Bilbo has proven his loyalty and his worth. When Thorin tries to find reason to deny his desire, grasping for an objection as to why he should not press his thumb to the apple of Bilbo's cheek, or let his mouth test the suppleness of Bilbo's lower lip, all he finds is dizzying emptiness.

The sensation is unsettling and unwelcome, but Thorin clings to the imbalance, and forces his silly and ill-timed lust away. "Do not," he growls reflexively as Bilbo's mouth opens, cutting off the unwanted worries that are sure to come forth. In turn, Thorin grits his teeth so that no words but the ones he intends may leave, and restates, " _Do not_."

There is enough of the hobbit from the Shire that Bilbo does not press, though not enough to avert his steady gaze from Thorin's glare. A short time ago, there would have been. _Damn his growing courage,_ Thorin thinks curtly as he runs his damp palms against his stained breeches. He stands abruptly and forcefully looks away. He refuses to give Bilbo any indication that he is sore and tired, to give the halfling more fodder to fuel his unwanted concern.

"Fíli, Kíli," Thorin shouts as he trudges away from the bank. His nephews look up from where they tussle in the shallow water. "Cease your splashing and get out. We have a long ways to go yet today. Gloin, Bifur, bring up the rear. Dwalin, with me."

Gloin and Bifur obey immediately, walking around to the back of their beleaguered company. Dwalin, Thorin's companion and friend for many, many years, notices his terseness and raises one bushy eyebrow, glancing between Thorin and the hobbit in query.

"Leave it well alone," Thorin demands lowly, as Dwalin and he take their positions at the front of the group.

"Aye, I'll be leavin it," Dwalin assures. "But I want ye to know that if ye grit yer teeth much longer, ye'll be havin naught but dust and spittle in yer gob."

Before Bilbo—before Gandalf had murmured superstitions about unlucky numbers and told Thorin about a potential fourteenth candidate—Thorin had only seen a small number of hobbits, and only fleetingly in all his years and extensive travels. He never had reason to visit the Shire or Bree, and many hobbits never had reason to leave their homes and travel east. He knew about the halflings, of course, but never gave much thought to their simplicity. The world they inhabited seemed a much different world than to the one that Thorin was accustomed, and he had no desire to live amongst gentle folk, as rough as unhewn rock as he was.

In the weeks that followed the company's departure from the Shire, it seemed to Thorin that Bilbo embodied every soft generality he had ever heard about hobbits. Bilbo was unused to constant travel, meager meals, and sleeping on the hard ground. Luck (and perhaps a small bit of wit) was the only thing that kept the hobbit alive with the trolls and orcs and goblins and Thorin knew, with absolute certainty, that such luck would not hold forever.

So when Bilbo had tried to sneak away, the night the rock giants fought in the mountain pass, Thorin had felt justified in his poor treatment of him. Bilbo was plain and simple. Despite Gandalf's claims, Bilbo had no place in a company of thirteen dwarves seeking retribution and reclamation at any cost. His death, which was almost assured by the nature the their quest, would be needless, pointless, senseless.

Yet alongside his contempt and disdain for Bilbo's cowardly attempt to slink away, Thorin had felt a strange, dichotomous twist of bitter disappointment and inexplicable relief. These emotions bloomed inside him like white flowers on the wall of a cliff, unexpected and bright, before he ripped them out, and tossed them aside before their roots could find the apology deep within him. He would let Bilbo go back to his hobbit hole and live his days in contentment and safety, lest this journey and its dangers rob the hobbit of his stable, if unexciting, future.

Now, Thorin has given his sincerest apology and accepted Bilbo. It does not ease Thorin's mind as it eases Gandalf's and the company's, because while Bilbo may have proven his bravery and his fortitude, courage alone will not supplement sloppy swordsmanship. Thorin justifiably fears that what he once asked for, in a cozy and comforting smial a long road behind, will not be enough to save Bilbo, when the time comes.

Thorin has had enough of death; he does not need another life weighing on his conscience.

.

The company pushes through the forest as quickly as they can, spurred on by the lonely peak they can see looming in the distance and Gandalf's promise of sanctuary deep in the woods. Thorin knows they are exhausted. He can see it in the slump of their shoulders and the silent winces when they step down too hard and jostle sore muscles, but they must move as quickly as they can. Time does not rest, and neither can they.

Thorin stops before dusk and divides the duties amongst them. Once a fire is built and they split the meager tack Bombur managed to save, Thorin allows himself to sink back into a cradle of tree roots just outside the warm light coming from the low blaze. He feels as though he could rest for an eon; he needs to see to his remaining injuries, lest they slow him down, but his pride will not let him. The pain is penance for his failure to defeat Azog, first in Azanulbizar, then in the Misty Mountains.

Naturally, this is when Bilbo leaves Bofur's side, walks outside the circle of light cast by the fire, and perches on the tree root next to Thorin. He has a withered apple in one hand, which he crunches into happily. (Half rations are hard for the most seasoned traveler, and even a bruised fruit is a delight when it would not be, otherwise.) The conversation and smothered laughter from the camp floats over to them; the company is in a good mood despite, or perhaps because of, the dangers they have faced.

"Good evening," Bilbo greets cordially.

Thorin does not return the sentiment, and replies tersely, "If you are here to inquire after my well-being, I suggest you take your conversation elsewhere."

Bilbo hums a note, clear and fine and low, before he takes another bite of his small apple. Unwittingly, Thorin's eyes fall from Bilbo's shaded eyes to the soft curve of his jaw to the lines of his throat. He has less facial hair than the most beautiful dwarf women, and his beardlessness borders on the obscene. How strange would Bilbo's smooth skin feel beneath his calluses, Thorin ponders, before he realizes the hunger within it, and wrenches his stare away as Bilbo swallows.

_Stupid,_ Thorin reprimands himself sharply, angry at the direction of his thoughts.

"You're hurt," Bilbo states quietly, after he finishes his apple and tosses the inedible, seedy core away. "And don't argue with me, I know you are."

When Thorin snaps, "It will not kill me," it sounds too much like an admission. Agitation crawls up from his gut to his chest and he rises to his feet. Bilbo rises with him, and because of the tree root he stands on, his gaze is level with Thorin's. "I do not wish to talk about this—give me some peace!"

"I will not." Bilbo juts his round jaw forwardly stubbornly. It should be comical; it is not. Thorin has watched Bilbo since the moment he joined their company and he knows, perhaps even better than Gandalf, what sort of person Bilbo has become and has yet to be.

"Leave it!"

"I will not!" Bilbo jabs one of his short fingers into Thorin's chest, against the blue cloth of his tunic where his scale armor parts. "And if you demand that I ignore your pain one more time, I shall tell Balin, and let him guilt you into seeing to your injuries."

Bilbo has talked trolls into forgetting the dawn, and Thorin has heard him mutter unforgiving and impolite slurs beneath his breath, but Bilbo's underhanded methods still surprise him. The unexpectedness of it takes the edge off Thorin's irritation; though he wishes to be angry, it bleeds from him regardless. Perhaps what Gandalf said about halflings being forgettable and overlooked applied to more than their presence.

"Are you always this infuriating?" Thorin rumbles.

Bilbo swiftly counters, "Are you always this stubborn?"

"Yes," Thorin retorts, but silently, he surrenders. He is tired and he hurts, both physically and mentally. He has been proven wrong in his belief that Azog the Defiler was dead and that Bilbo was an invaluable and unwanted burden. The company has survived trolls, orcs, rock giants, and goblins by the skin of their teeth and miraculous strokes of luck. Thorin has accepted the help of elves and bent his unbendable pride more in the past few months than he has in decades. Nothing about the journey thus far has been easy and as much as he hopes that the worst is behind them, Thorin knows that what they have yet to encounter will border the impossible.

_Besides,_ Thorin thinks even as his grits his teeth. _What is vulnerability, to a hobbit?_

"Now that you seen things my way," Bilbo continues cheekily when Thorin remains silent, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his mossy waistcoat. "Let's see to those pesky injuries."

"Fine," Thorin concedes, and it makes something tighten in his chest, "but not here."


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin takes Bilbo away from the prying eyes of the company, and raises a yielding hand to stay Balin when the older dwarf questioningly lifts his sword-arm.

With the silent command issued, no one will disturb them.

Neither Thorin nor Bilbo carries a torch, but neither needs the light to see their path; it is just past sunset and the moon is bright and nearly full in the cloudless sky. Bilbo says naught as they trudge through the flimsy undergrowth, as Thorin leads them further and further from the light and safety of their camp. Torn between the want for privacy and the need for security, Thorin stops just shy of earshot and scans the area around them. The great eagles had flown them an impressive distance from the mountains, but Thorin refuses to be caught unawares by orcs or trolls again.

"Well?" Thorin sneers once he is satisfied. "What next, Master Baggins?"

A frown tightens Bilbo's features as he reaches into the slightly bulging pocket of his worn maroon coat. Impatiently, Thorin crosses his arms. If the hobbit has lured Thorin from the warmth of the fire and the rest he so desperately wishes to seek—as elusive as he knows it would be—simply to wrap his wounds with meager cloth, he will be very cross.

"Here!" Bilbo says as he pulls out a bulbous clay jar stoppered with a tiny, broken cork. He holds it up, as though for inspection, as he prattles, "It's a mixture that Gandalf prepared—"

Rage returns to Thorin as swiftly as a flood, drowning the end of Bilbo's conversation. " _What?_ " he roars, as he bares his teeth and jerks his arms from his chest; beneath his sudden and shamed anger, he feels a curl of dark satisfaction when Bilbo startles. The muscles in his shoulders tense as he hisses, "How _dare_ you! What right have you to tell—"

"No!" Bilbo cuts Thorin off sharply, his voice pitched high and strung as taut as a bow. Thorin's hands have risen menacingly into the space between them—Thorin's temper has always brought out the worst of himself—and when Bilbo flinches away, it brings Thorin a small measure of guilt and sanity. He digs his fingernails into his palms as Bilbo stutters, "N-no, I merely said—"

Thorin forcibly drops his tight fists to his sides and grits, "Tell me what you said, you wretch—"

"I told Gandalf that the injuries were mine, you stubborn ass!" Bilbo yells. He takes a bold step closer, as though Thorin's less aggressive posture were less dangerous. The hobbit even rolls his shoulders back in foolish determination, unaware of how it exposes his golden neck. "And if I had, why does it matter? You were nearly killed! When I saw you collapse—I couldn't—I thought—"

The way Bilbo chokes on the words stirs something more dangerous than anger in Thorin, and when he shouts, "Because I am not weak!" it is with greater force and more honesty than he had anticipated. Once spoke, he cannot stop the deluge of confession, and bellows like a wounded beast, "Because I was defeated by a ghost! What does my failure say to those I have asked to follow me into the jaws of death? Do they doubt me now? Do they think that they are utterly without hope, that they are doomed? I am their _king_! I cannot—I _will_ not—falter again!"

Thorin breathes hard and loud as the truth is wrenched from him. It hurts Thorin to admit such inadequacies, hurts more than his persistent bruises and scrapes. Yet unlike the physical reminders of his battle with Azog, which fester and burn, this pain is clean and cathartic and makes his hands tremble.

"Is that truly what you think?" Bilbo whispers, the words strained and hard to hear even though Bilbo steps even further into Thorin's space. Their chests are scant inches away; if Thorin were inclined, it would not be difficult to pull Bilbo into the cradle of his body. "Thorin, no one in this company doubts your strength, or your bravery, or your leadership."

"And how could you know that?" Thorin scorns with attempted disdain, but he sounds pleading to his own ear rather than condescending. Damn the hobbit for bringing out the weakest of him! "How can you?"

"You are many things." Bilbo falters only slightly as he wraps the small fingers of his free hand around Thorin's forearm. Thorin cannot feel the warmth or softness of Bilbo's touch due to his vambrace, but the slight pressure exerted by his grip is undeniable. "You are too stubborn and too proud and too distrustful. You could try the patience of a mountain, and goodness knows your temper gets you into more trouble than necessary—"

"Please, Master Baggins, tell me how you _really_ feel—"

"—but it comes from a good place!" Bilbo babbles earnestly over Thorin's sarcastic drawl. "You are blinded by your unwarranted shame! You cannot see the greatness of your courage or the strength of your determination. All you can see is what you do not have. But for me—for the entire company—your honor is as clear as daylight!" 

Though Bilbo's commendations sting rather than soothe, nettling Thorin's bone-deep pride and insecurities built from a lifetime of self-flagellation, Thorin nonetheless eases at Bilbo's sincerity. Quick to rise and quick to abate, Thorin's moods have always been mercurial, and Bilbo manages to inspire his ire and draw out his calm like few others have been able. It's dizzying. 

"My honor," Thorin scoffs, rhetorical, and turns his gaze from Bilbo's upturned face. Back in the Shire, Balin had said much the same—that Thorin had done honorably by their people—but for Thorin, there is no honor until Erebor has been reclaimed. No longer can he tolerate his life, and the lives of his people, as disgraceful nomads eking a living in the squalid, barren mines of the Blue Mountains. He will succeed in this quest and be king under the mountain like his father and grandfather before him, or he will die trying.

At least in death, there would be peace.

"Enough, Master Baggins," Thorin exclaims wearily as the heaviness of his conviction crushes the vestiges of his aggravation. He makes a sharp gesture with his hand, as though to cut through their argument. Since they are still so close, however, he merely succeeds in running his thick knuckles down Bilbo's chest. "I am tired and I will not change my mind with a few pretty words. We will do what we have come to do, then return to our companions. Agreed?"

Bilbo's body is still tense and his locked muscles vibrate, his passion not so easily drained as Thorin's. His brows furrow deeply over his fathomless eyes and his normally soft mouth works around hard, aborted syllables as he sputters, "You—you are—absolutely— _impossible!_ "

Thorin wants to lash out at the accusation, but that would draw this silly quarrel out unnecessarily. Instead, he holds his tongue, keeps his words in the cage of his blunt teeth, and remains silent. He holds Bilbo's incensed glare unblinkingly until Bilbo releases a low, wordless shout of his own, a small lion's roar from the mouth of a mouse. It is an oddly dwarven reaction from the normally mannerly hobbit.

Thorin wonders if Bilbo would consider it a compliment, if Thorin told him.

"Fine!" Bilbo removes his hand from Thorin's vambrace and throws it into the air in frustration. Then he releases a harsh punch of breath and grits, "Fine— _fine._ I don't know why I thought I could out-stubborn a dwarf, let alone the _king_ of dwarves—"

Eventually, Bilbo's irate mutterings fade into silence. A summer symphony of lazy crickets and forlorn owls fills the dark, and adds boundary and noise to the otherwise endless and quiet night. Blackness has crept upon them, noticeable now only because their brittle argument has broken into truce. It makes Thorin more aware of the negligible distance between his body and Bilbo.

Thorin retreats the moment he realizes how intimate their proximity is. Without his anger, he feels as lost as he had earlier that day by the stream; without his scorn, he is distracted by Bilbo's smaller frame and general softness. _If dwarves are thought to be hewn from rock,_ Thorin thinks inanely as he takes yet another step back, _then surely hobbits are tilled from earth._

After two meager paces, Thorin stops. There is tension in the air, tangible, as though Thorin could unsheathe his sword and cut through like he could flesh and bone. Bilbo does not seem to notice even when Thorin pointedly and inelegantly clears his throat.

"The salve, Master Baggins?" he clarifies as dispassionately as he can manage, to fool Bilbo if not himself. He crosses his arms across his chest as Bilbo nods in acquiescence and twists the cork from the thin mouth of the clay jar.

"Gandalf said it was the best remedy for bruises," Bilbo explains needlessly. "He assured me that it would numb the pain and help speed up the healing process." As he lifts the jar, Bilbo hesitates; his clinical recitation stumbles into embarrassment, and he blurts, "But you will have to undress."

Bilbo bites his lower lip and averts his gaze as soon as the words leave him, the flush on his cheeks vivid even in the moonlight. Maybe Bilbo is not unaware of how the atmosphere has unraveled, in spite of their quarreling—maybe he too—

Thorin halts the hopeful thought before it can form.

Stiffly, Thorin shrugs the heavy grey fur off his shoulders and begins the tedious process of removing all his weapons and their sheaths. He unbuckles every belt with ease and sets them aside; his vambraces and brigandine are not so simple, but he refuses to let Bilbo help, even as the hobbit hovers and fidgets in the edge of his vision. Finally, Thorin peels off his tunic and stands half-clothed in the moonlight, wearing no more than his rings and tattoos, his boots and breeches.

By dwarf standards, Thorin is very handsome. He stands half-a-head taller than most and is as broad and as thick as a boulder; though shorn close, he has a thick and respectable beard, and dark hair across his chest, down his belly, and over his forearms and calves. His handsomeness, however, is not something Thorin pays particular attention to, for vanity is for elves. Thorin cares more for skill with an axe or blade than he does fine locks or intricate braids, and divides his time accordingly.

Yet the way Bilbo looks at him makes him rethink his vanity. Bilbo's gaze is a physical touch that slides down the curve of Thorin's chest and rigid planes of his stomach. How does he look to the hobbit, half-naked and bathed in moonlight, the basalt darkness of his hair and his geometric tattoos at war with the marble paleness of his skin? Is his body as fascinating to Bilbo as Bilbo's is to him, or is Bilbo simply curious about the differences? Does Bilbo gaze upon Thorin and feel fire in his veins, as Thorin feels fire in his, or does he looks upon Thorin and feel revulsion?

"Come then," Thorin snaps tetchily, suddenly and viscerally uncomfortable with Bilbo's wide-eyed and guileless stare. The words are as sharp as the sting of a whip and, when Bilbo starts, Thorin refuses to feel guilty. "I wish to rest at some point tonight."

Despite his earlier bluster, Bilbo is hesitant to touch Thorin. He reclaims the distance between them with faltering steps, invading the space Thorin had futilely created, and shifts his weight from one foot to another as he contemplates the bruises littering Thorin's body, indecisive as where to begin. It takes an inordinate amount of willpower not to fidget like a child beneath the unexpected heaviness of Bilbo's gaze.

Thorin is ready to retreat, to don his clothes and armor once more—the hobbit's protests and threats be damned—when Bilbo's small fingers unexpectedly connect with Thorin's ribs. The unanticipated touch alights every nerve in Thorin's side like tinder meeting the spark of flint, and Thorin could not stop the gasp that escapes him even if he wished it.

"Oh!" Bilbo exclaims, ripping his hand away from Thorin's skin and staring up at Thorin, startled and concerned. His irises are colorless in the dim light. "Did I hurt you?"

Gandalf's spell had knit Thorin's bones and organs back together, but it is not pain that echoes through Thorin's body. It is something much harder to ignore than pain, something more insidious, and something Thorin has never experienced so strongly before this odd night.

"No," Thorin croaks as he glares at the quiet, accepting shadows. "No, you did not."

"Oh," Bilbo repeats. "Then why did you—"

"Cold," Thorin lies.

"My apologies," Bilbo murmurs as a flush darkens the round swell of his cheeks. His front teeth briefly dig into his plump bottom lip. "I did not think of that."

Thorin curses his lies a moment later, for his lack of foresight could not have predicted that Bilbo would rub the salve between his palms, heating the concoction before he again set his hands upon Thorin's skin. In honesty, Thorin had not noticed the temperature before, as he had been too distracted by the intimate connection of Bilbo's fingers and his ribs. Even now, when Thorin has prepared himself, Bilbo's touch has not lost any of its potency; Thorin suspects that he could prepare himself for a hundred years, build an imaginary fortress out of his anger and shame and loneliness, only for the devastation of Bilbo's touch to make it crumble, as though he had built an impenetrable bastion in fields of sand.

Hyper-aware of where they connect, Thorin's skin pills like gooseflesh, the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck standing on end. Thorin breathes deep and deliberate, and forces himself to remain still. It is a testament to his iron will that he does not lean into the soft curve of Bilbo's hesitant fingers.

"Is this better?" Bilbo asks.

"Yes," Thorin replies. The answer catches in his throat and tumbles off his tongue like broken granite. He jerks his chin upwards in affirmation as well, but the movement feels awkward and unnatural.

Bilbo does not seem to notice. He hums a note of pleased satisfaction, and then proceeds to smear his palm against the worst of the bruising.

Again unable to swallow his noise, Thorin releases a tight hiss from between his teeth. Thorin's ribs had taken the brunt of the warg's powerful bite, and his skin and muscle are tender. Discomfort blooms beneath the slight pressure exerted by Bilbo's touch, yet a swift-following heat, a pleasure for which Thorin has no name, opposes the itch of pain. Thorin cannot decide if he wants to lean into the intoxication of Bilbo's touch or away from it, and the indecision keeps him still.

The salve Bilbo studiously applies smells strongly of crushed herbs and wet earth. It is smooth like oil, its consistency marred by the occasional pulp of mashed plant matter. Neither the scent nor the texture is pleasant or unpleasant; it simply is. In vain, Thorin tries to focus on those characteristics rather than his reactions to it being applied.

His focus does not last long.

It is impossible to ignore the sensations inspired by Bilbo's touch. His palms glide across the muscle and bone of Thorin's battered ribs; his fingers invade the crevices of Thorin's abused abdomen; he digs the heels of his hands into Thorin's sore shoulders; he meanders over the curves of Thorin's aching biceps and injured forearms; and when he reaches Thorin's hands, he takes care to give each scratched knuckle a studious and particular attention, where Thorin's vambraces had not protected the joints from rough ground and warg teeth.

Thorin's heart is a hammer against his sternum and his blood is a drum in his ears. He cannot think. His desire for Bilbo has enflamed him; it threatens to burn all of his previous encounters into obscurity and ash, and is so strong he can even feel his pulse in his teeth. If Thorin did not know better, if tales of such heartache and want were not as important to his kind as gold and iron, he would believe Bilbo had put an enchantment on him.

An enchantment would almost be preferable.

"The scratches on your face," Bilbo murmurs as his fingers finish slipping between Thorin's knuckles. Captivated, Thorin's gaze rises to meet Bilbo's. He looks as wrecked and as desperate as Thorin feels. "Thorin, I need—"

Bilbo's questing hands alight on Thorin's cheeks before Thorin can give permission, not that Thorin would have, could have, denied the hobbit anything. A noise that would be a whimper on a lesser dwarf invades the quiet space between them. Bilbo pays the sound no mind and continues his task. The callused tips of his fingers seek the broken skin across the bridge of Thorin's nose, the gouges along his cheekbones, and the rough corner of his mouth. When Bilbo lingers, his hand curled in front of Thorin's face as though to catch his warm breath, it becomes clear that Bilbo's touch is meant to be a caress.

Since Thorin's youth, he has been with the finest dwarf women and the strongest dwarf men—in some instances, he has even been with a few curious humans— and each and every one of his bedmates had been a means to an end. After all, he is a descendant of Durin the Deathless himself, the king of Durin's Folk, and ruler of a displaced people; he has much more important things to worry about than the frivolous pursuit of romance.

This is not to say that Thorin has not had companions that he has enjoyed time with—some of his dalliances had lasted years, in the relative stability of Ered Luin—it is simply to say that none of them have ensnared him as Bilbo has managed. Never before has his desire vied for the same amount of attention he gives his duties. How his initial interest, which had been momentary and fleeting appreciation for Bilbo's small form, become so much more in such little time Thorin does not know. Perhaps it is only the novelty of Bilbo's oddness that Thorin finds so attractive, and when enough time has passed, so too will Thorin's passions wane.

Like many things Thorin tries to convince himself of, this is a comforting lie.

"I cannot," Thorin whispers as Bilbo's gentle touch remains, a warm comfort against his chapped lips. Each word sinks into Bilbo's skin and settles in his bones. It sounds much like pleading even to Thorin's own ear, but he cannot help that. His physical and emotional armor have been laid aside, the first by his hand, the last by Bilbo's. "I cannot."

"It seems there are a great many things you cannot do or have," Bilbo murmurs in reply, "and no one but you is allowed to decide what those things might be."

Thorin has done many difficult things in his life—as a king, he has learned that the hard decision is often the right one—but few have been so difficult as this. He wants, oh how he wants, but Bilbo—Bilbo, so sweet and so tempting, cannot be his, not now when Erebor can be seen on the horizon. Bilbo has already been enough of a distraction. 

So Thorin says, "I must be the master of my own fate."

"No one can control fate," Bilbo responds, as damnably reasonable as Thorin knows him to be, when his fiery temper does not have him. "That is why we call it fate."

Though Bilbo has insisted that he was not a burglar, he has robbed Thorin of many things since they left the Shire. As deft-fingered and quiet as any master of thievery, Bilbo has taken Thorin's surety and stoicism; when and how Thorin does not know. Those thefts have left a raw emptiness in their wake and they make Thorin ache to have what simple comfort Bilbo offers in return. How wretched this hobbit is, to take so that he may give.

But Thorin must not cave, no matter how hollow he is inside or how weak his support. This is his burden, and his burden alone.

"I cannot," Thorin repeats for a final time, to convince himself as much as Bilbo. He closes his eyes against the handsome picture Bilbo makes, and hoards the memory greedily even as he braces himself, as a warrior preparing to rip an arrow embedded in his body might. Then he wraps his hands around Bilbo's wrists, gently removes Bilbo's fingers from his body, and takes a step back so that Bilbo cannot reach him. The skin where Bilbo's fingers had rested is cold and bereft. As Thorin takes another step away, and another, and another, it does not surprise him that distance does not ease their separation.

Quickly and mechanically, Thorin tugs his tunic and sturdy mail back over his head, assembles his weapons and their sheaths, and draws his heavy mantle about him once more. The familiar motions are a poor distraction. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin watches as Bilbo remains immobile, his hands hovering in the air as though Thorin might return. Thorin refocuses his stare firmly on the ground.

Once he is fully clothed, Thorin turns back to face the hobbit. Bilbo returns his gaze with imploration, his soft mouth indolent with confusion, as though he cannot understand why Thorin has left him. He looks as bereaved as Thorin feels, and Thorin is left to shift uncomfortably beneath his layers of iron and leather, velvet and linen. It does not feel as though he is swathed in fine dwarven armor. He can feel the weight, but no amount of material can refute the truth: Bilbo has seen the heart of him, and Thorin will never be able to hide his weaknesses from him again.

Thorin does not like it. It helps harden his resolve.

"I thank you, Master Baggins," intones Thorin stiffly and formally, bowing his head in a parody of gratefulness. He does not look at Bilbo directly; instead, he focuses on the tapered end of Bilbo's ear, and concentrates on keeping his face as stony and unreadable as a mountain's. "You have healed my wounds."

Perhaps it is Thorin's sudden change in demeanor that Bilbo mimics; perhaps it is because Bilbo does not understand why Thorin must step away even though he does not want to; perhaps Bilbo takes Thorin's rejection as a lack of desire rather than an abundance of duty; but whatever the cause, Bilbo's face hardens as he caustically replies, "Not nearly."

Anger is simpler than resignation or honesty, and Thorin gives into it easily even as he despairs of the sour twist of Bilbo's mouth. He lets rage overtake his tumultuous emotions, and lets the indignity of being chastised by a common gentle hobbit drown the shame he feel from Bilbo's sharp disappointment. It is his last and only defense, now. 

"Your task is done," Thorin snaps. "Goodnight, Master Baggins."

And as Thorin storms away, heedless of the noise he makes as he crashes through the thin undergrowth, he tries to convince himself that he does not care that he left Bilbo alone in the dark, to find his own way back.


End file.
